


something borrowed.

by RookieBrown



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Clarke Griffin, Doctor Lexa Woods, F/F, Slow Burn Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Too Much Historical Inaccuracies ensuit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:18:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RookieBrown/pseuds/RookieBrown
Summary: Another Clexa Arranged Marriage AU to add to the pile.or,Featuring (my favorite).Doctor Woods and Artist Griffin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This draft had been sitting in my folders and had been aging by the day and so I thought to edit it.
> 
> Based loosely on "The Magic of Ordinary Days" hallmark movie. 
> 
> I simply adore the movie and I could not not do this story. I hope you find it appealing and truly consider this my New Year's present for you. The movie and the love displayed by the actors had been so so gooey and soft and I just thought it they were Lexa and Clarke instead - well which would simply be awesome, so -

 

 

 

_Arkadia (1944)_

 

You stand in a sundress, a double breasted pea coat draped over you. Your hair is in a tight bun, and your jaw clenches as your mother squeezes you on your shoulder. Her face is masked with regret, but at that moment, you feel lost, standing as if you were stranger in your – _your once –_ home. 

 

“It’s for the best.” Abigail Griffin Kane, _your mother_ later and the madam of the Kane estate says. You nod, try to be numb at this situation but still a traitorous tear slips past your eyelashes.

 

She signals Otto, and he picks up your suitcases in his lanky arms and disappears behind the front doors.

 

You nod again, this time mostly to yourself. The pale figure of your mother shifts past and rests against your father’s study. _Your late father’s._

_“You brought this upon yourself” – Your mother had berated, the first time she heard the news._

_“It’s not ideal. Never for a woman. Jake might not have wanted this but he have preferred this” – Abby settled later. You remember her eyes that day, looking past the towering window pane and so much in pain, in remembrance, in disappointment. You had wanted to scream so much._

There’s a honk of the cab and then there’s shuffling of feet. Before you can respond, your mother coos you gently against her bosom, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders. Warm tears wet on your coat – you know she’s sorry.

 

“I’m sorry too, Mother.”

 

You slip in a barely steeled face and in gloved fingers and in _that_ warm seed growing inside of you, and you don’t let yourself cry until you are out of the memory lanes – of incomplete paintings – of that unfinished letter to _Sergeant Blake -_  out and way out of _Arkadia._

 

_TonDC (1944)_

The town is smaller, in magnitude on the levels of the growing economy but somewhere it manages to fill it up too many kind smiles and soft wrinkles that comes your way – _or maybe it’s just how Reverend Gustus welcomes you._

“I knew your father, Jake Griffin, back in the army.” He smiles earnestly behind decaying long greying beard, as he trots up to his home. “He was a fine engineer and an even better friend.” He says gesturing you inside the white fenced house, but it’s your nerves that makes you stop short at the door.

 

You swallow and a thin cold sweat breaks out on your forehead in the crisp weather of TonDC. Gustus pauses, almost raising his arm to sooth you.

 

“It’ll be fine, Miss Griffin.” He says. Still, like second nature your hand flies over the shell of your stomach, a vigor bile forcing out at the precedence of the morning. “She is one of the few good persons I know.” Gustus reassures you, right arm stretched out in waiting for you to come inside.

 

You nod. But the stench of the bile stays put in your mouth.

 

 

 

The moment is – _stiff,_ when you meet her. Your would be _wife._ Your _partner._ She stands ramrod tall in dark boots and in fitted men’s trousers at your entrance, smooth ungloved hands already rising to remove her outback hat that was hiding her eyes.

 

She bows impeccably stoic and formal, green shard eyes pouring into you, making you yield too. There’s a fair distance between you, but you feel the weight of her gaze on you, as yours drift anywhere but her.

 

Gustus clears his throat.

 

“This is the good doctor of our town, Miss Griffin. Dr. Alexandria Woods.” He moves his hands gleefully between the two of you. You see the said _Alexandria_ nods only curtly in acknowledgement nothing more than a practiced smile as she reaches forward for an _acquainted handshake_ when the reverend continues “and this is Clarke Griffin, _Alexandria._ ” You gulp at the soft warmness of her palm, dropping it too soon a moment late, your eyes already drooped on the carpet floor.

 

The second stills too long for your comfort, the palpable tension not only creeping you but even Gustus. But _Alexandria_ stays put, eyes still clung onto you.

 

It doesn’t bother you in a way you would have thought but it still unsettles you. Gustus snickers finally clearing his throat.

 

“I’ll let you both gals get acquainted before the – ceremony and uh -” He pauses by the door, “Alexandria, why don’t you pour some lemonade for Miss Griffin and I’ll see you both back at the church - ” He flies his arms out in the air in front before nodding to Alexandria’s _will do sir_ and shutting the door on his way out.

 

 

 

You hate the silence. The uncomfortable one that pricks on your skin. In this moment, you find yourself hard not to think of Bellamy except you do. He could always fill in with these gaps with laughter and jokes that had you cackling up to the ribs. You miss his easy smile.

 

“You can call me Lexa.” She finally says, dutifully filling up an empty glass with too sweet of a lemonade and placing it on your hands whilst filling up one for herself. “Reverend is – well -” She swallows rest of her words, motioning your towards the couch.

 

You don’t sit down. Neither does she. The lemonade stales in both of your hands.

 

“Lexa.” You peel out. She looks up, slow enough to hide away her muted nervousness except you see right through her. “Are you sure about this? In case you are having second thoughts, I would understand, but are you sure about this?”

 

Lexa places her glass down, running her hand on her collared shirt. She looks up at you, green emeralds sparkling like the spring blossoming in Arkadia.

 

“I am sure, ma’am.” She punctuates her words humbly strong, like a promise that has been tiptoed on your palm. “Are you?”

 

You say a constraint yet compelling _yes_ and another tight lipped silence lapses.

“Will you be able to love this child as your own though?” The question slips in subconscious mind, you almost slapping your hand over your mouth. But a small line stretches on her lips much to your astonishment. Before you can notice it properly it’s gone.

 

“Yes, I can and I shall.” It’s another promise she makes within a short passage of time but somehow it makes you reminisce – of your father. Jake was a man of his word. _So is your would-be wife, apparently._

_“Why did you accept this proposal.” You want to ask._

_You don’t._

She clears her throat soundly. You can see the questions rummaging in her eyes though she doesn’t say. She chooses her words passively careful.

 

“I have been told by your mother that the father of your child is no longer in the picture?” It’s a supposed statement though it comes out as a question. _And a half truth._

 

You wonder what else had Abby told her. Maybe that - _Staff Sergeant Bellamy Blake was on his way to become Major._ Or that - _he wanted to fight and win the war – not commitment, let alone kids._ And that – _even though he had told you that too many times under covered sheets and coffee breaths, you still loved him._

But Abby didn’t. _Only the half truth and closed promises._

You nod this time an affirmative, but however, it doesn’t come easy.

 

Lexa accepts it. You try to sway your attention through the walls of the wallpapered room, but her eyes stay stuck on you.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

_It’s time._

You fist and un-fist your palm, bee lining in calculated steps towards the door.

 

_It’s for the best._

_It’s for the best._

 

“ _Miss Griffin?_ ” You don’t hear her. “Ma’am?”

 

_It’s for the best._

“ _Klark_?” A gentle hand unwraps you out of your stupor. “ _Klark_.” Lexa says again. Tender and too close to you, as she pauses you at the door entrance. The benign smell of wet earth comes off Lexa. You finally open your eyes at her _Klark._ And you swear in that moment, nobody has called your name like that. _Like when the first dew settles on the petal. Like the humming warmth of the winter sun in the morning._

_Like that._

_Not even Bellamy._

“Are you sure?” Lexa asks again. You don’t know why you follow every small wrinkle on her face, when she asks you.

 

_A bare college graduate. Daughter of a socialite. Pregnant with the baby of a man off to war. A man who sends her word once a month – who never will give you – your baby - his name._

_A disgrace to your father’s reputation. To Abby. To Marcus._

_No. You are not sure._

“Yes.” Your answer echoes in you, swallowing in your tears. You are hesitant in your _yes,_ she notices but she doesn’t ask.

 

 

You meet Anya Pine for the first time in the small suffocating walls of the office. She’s has dirty blonde hair with an undercut Caucasian tone in her skin, wearing a grey dress as she excuses herself from her talks with the father of the church. She eyes you warily and stringently and you can’t see to find any shadow of shared parentage between _your partner_ and _her sister._

“ _Anya_ ” Lexa warns, a head tilted and soft eyes sharp and Anya’s gaze softens only a miniscule but doesn’t falter until a rough tanned arm motions her to a halt. The intruder is a woman is a tight ponytail and in men’s attire but in all honestly it’s not the first thing you notice of her.

 

It’s that limp of her right leg, encased in a metal brace. You gaze falters as your eyes move up only to momentarily land on the army necklace around her neck. The room grows errily quiet. You see as Lexa notices you, noticing it. The respective woman too. Except she doesn’t seem to pay any heed to it.

 

“Raven Reyes.” She introduces herself. “ _Anya’s wife._ ” She says, in toothed smile, and the next thing you see is a thinned metal ring encircling her ring finger – a replica one on Anya’s finger as well. It leaves you awestruck. 

 

Instead of a much accustomed handshake, Raven gives you a small hug instead. She smells of oil and grease and you are reminded of the _nostalgic_ aroma of acrylic colors and your _War and Peace._

 

Raven steps out of your space and engulfs in almost a bear hug over _Lexa’s_ at a very awkward angle that can’t be too comfortable but then you watch Lexa hold Raven up, almost as if steadying her weight off her damaged leg. Their movements are one of friendship, as Lexa smiles against Raven’s shoulder, _that unrestrained one_ and you stare too eagerly at that familiarity _must exceed_ beyond the bond of _in laws_ life.  

 

 

 

You sign the papers on the registry first with no ring. Your witness is _Reverend Gustus Brown._ And hers is her sister _Anya Pine._

You get _bonded till death do us part_ in to Lexa in front of Jesus, the father and the Holy Spirit, in an empty aisle with only Lexa’s side of the family – with no ring – no music – no flower girls – and not even a wedding kiss. Your vision goes blurry and you only pray that you are not crying because this wasn’t how you wanted to get married. You numb out his preaching, wishing your father was here because you feel your feet wobble in dismay.

 

But then Lexa says, “ _I do._ ” and this time, she’s looking at you instead of the Father or the Christened Christ that you don’t even recollect your own _I do._ You just see her face, the regal curve of her jawline as she looks down at your stomach and holds her hand out for you.

 

 

 

Lexa holds out two of your suitcases leads you up to the two storied house, after 6 miles of the main circle of _TonDC_. It’s unnerving and you almost topple over her as your heeled feet settle on the soft ground. There’s two dusty sheds, the back drop hidden under the drooping arms of a tree, an unattended garden upfront – and the vigorous howls of a dog.

 

You eye the nearest shed, as Lexa opens her lock, opening the wooden barrier wide for you. “Heda’s pretty jumpy to new people so I locked him.”

 

“Your dog.” You say deadpanned at the prospect of four-legged fur trotting around. If Lexa notices it, she doesn’t say anything. You place the clothed material on the nearest table, the heat of the casserole slipping off your fingers, distantly eyeing the unfamiliar surroundings.

 

Lexa places the bags on the hardwood floor, settling her hat on the hanger. She rubs her hand on the calf of her exposed neck, gesturing you to the nearest room.

 

“How about I give you a tour of the place.” She begins, holding out to the living room with a curtained tv, the fax machine, the dining place and the kitchen and the bathroom. There’s apparently four bedrooms, two bathrooms, two study rooms with a small library dedicated to each but nothing beyond the doctoring of the human body. You try not to show your mild disappointment.

 

“And the telephone?” You ask curiously hoping. Lexa stuffs her hand in her back pockets.

 

“Well, I had one but the storm disrupted the lines and the repair is yet to be made.” She nods tight lipped. You nod, eyes shut. Lexa licks her lips desperate to change the subject.

 

“You can tell me what you need to restock the kitchen?” Lexa walks past you, busying herself in serving out the casserole that Anya gave for supper, on their plates.

 

You pull a chair when the table and sit yourself down. “I can’t – really cook. Not for my lacking of trying, of course.”

 

Lexa sits herself down, hands clasped on the fork. You watch her open and close her mouth, unsure, “I could ask Anya to teach you?”

 

The melting gooiness of the food goes down the wrong pipe then. Anya already petrified you just enough. You nod too fast. “No harm in trying again.” You pause, toying the empty spoon on your plate. “I just didn’t see much of any book except that of medicine.”

 

“Yes.” Lexa swallows from across the table. “I can take you to the library in town for that? You can get some cooking books and whatever else pleases you.”

 

“Of course.” You bite in your tongue, spooning in another bite to school of your agitation.

 

Lexa clears her throat, eyes soft when you look up to her. “I believe that you have been studying art history, if I’m mistaken.”

 

“Yes.” The squeal from you almost ajars Lexa’s eyes. “Well, yes. I was actually contemplating on doing my thesis paper on _from the dark continent to the white walls_ but _women politics and women suffrage_ appealed to me more though _renaiss –_ “ Maybe it was the veiled cluelessness on her face that irked you immensely. She was trying to understand but you knew she had no clue.

 

You stop your rambling and end with a “I was in graduate school, I was supposed to go to London and not – “

 

“Of course.”

 

She nods stoically, a silent mask slipping on. She pulls her chair back and collects her and your empty plates and places them on the sink, much to your protest. Afterwards, she slips on her coat, jiggling the truck keys.

 

“I have a shift at the clinic till late in the evening. Do you need anything else?”

 

You nod you head. “No, thank you.”

 

She stays a minute at the threshold of the open door, fingers dwindling with the hat. The howling of the dog still persisting. Her eyes guide down to the lower end of your abdomen. You think her gaze is awfully soft, words hanging in her mouth. You wait but she doesn’t say anything. “Alright then.” She says in parting. “I’ll see you in the evening. And welcome home, Clarke.”

 

You peel the kitchen curtain to a side, watching the lean figure open the creaky door to a furred bernese dog, almost toeing her backwards as he lunged for Lexa. Apart from Raven, maybe it was the second time you watched her smile at him. It was oddly endearing, you cant help but think. _Heda_ follows her till her truck door was set and till dust settled after her going.

 

You settled in the room with the balcony and the wide window. February is rather cool in TonDC, the broadened horizon fading in orange steaks under the cream sky. You sit by the desk, pulling out a parchment paper and a pen.  

 

 _Dear Bell –_ you begin anew.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. I just wanted to lay out a few things.  
> Firstly, even though I don't reply, I read all of your comments and I can't thank you enough for that - and to be honest it pushes me forward to write more, I suppose.  
> Secondly, some of you have raised this concerned that a same sex couple and let alone a marriage in 1940's wasn't possible and I agree but it's my story and in my universe, it's always been live and let live so no homophobia will never ever be here.  
> And thirdly, my story is not at all racist. I don't know why some people thought - maybe it's my fault - some dialogues might sounded or inclined racism but trust me, I never even thought it from that point of view.
> 
> If still any of you have any uneasiness or further dilemma- please don't read it.

 

Sleep hasn’t been coming to you _until almost it’s the early hours of another day_. The singular master bed is silkily soft under you – a heavy distinction of the rough mattress that you used to sleep in your college dormitories and of course there had been _Emma –_ your roommate and her much _not possible Clarke I don’t snore_ light snores. You had struggled for some time though considering you had always been a single child in a too big of a house but then you had gotten used to it -  first Emma and then her _humming through the night._

The fluff of the bed almost delves down a plateau underneath you as you shift for an umpteenth time that night but despite all, it’s still a stranger bed to you – _sleep doesn’t come – at least not yet anyway._

 

 

 

Lexa catches your impatience and your tiredness before you can word it. It’s been not even two days and somehow you have been itching to get out – _to get the letter_ and its heaviness across the oceans.

 

“Why don’t you get ready and I’ll pick you up in – say – 2 hours?”

 

Lexa leaves early for the clinic, curtly informing you of the appointment she had set prior that day for your check up with a pediatric _Dr. Harper._

You are eager to say yes – because knitting has been never you and so neither was cooking of burnt food and its subsequent cleaning of the char of those dishes before Lexa had taken it upon herself to cook – _until -_. You were irritated and restless – agitated – _a cat out of her bag -_ and you knew Lexa knew it but she had thankfully let the space stay.

 

 

 

You always had hated hospitals. Maybe because some innate part in you will always hate these walls because no matter the day – _city_ or _town_ , it was somewhere in these walls your father had died - young and with so much life still breathing in him. _Abby_ thinks you don’t remember but you do, you remember the stillness in his blues settling in stone slowly as he had looked at you – _his hand still warm in yours._

 

 

 

It’s nothing like the hospitals you have seen back at _Arkadia_ though _._ It’s a clinic, two floored and pale fully white against the sun – with disdained colorless walls as you enter. But something cleanses away the stench of death from it. Your eyes traces the unsteady colored paintings that hung in simple papers up in the walls – with small initials underneath each one. A subconscious hand rises on your tummy and an odd remembrance of _Jake_ flashes by your tired lids.

 

It’s a Sunday and the small clinic is always running short staffed against the number of patients here – Lexa informs you just upfront at the empty reception desk.

 

 

 

Dr. Harper however has a wide smile, cheekily asks _Mrs. Woods – you –_ to call her just Harper. She is weirdly bubbly and you should have found her fake, from the number of small talks she makes with you in the span of 20 minutes – you really should have found her annoying from the way she would coo at the growing heartbeat in you but you don’t.

 

You glance up at Lexa who has yet to verbally say a word albeit a stiff nod – _anything –_ but she doesn’t. Her eyes are somehow stuck astutely at your tummy and you think there’s a slight water in her eyes. You have this dull ache to reach out to her, no matter how much of a stranger your own wife is to you but _you don’t._

“Your baby is perfectly healthy, _Mrs. Woods_.” Harper gets up and twirls around her stethoscope from her neck. You nod pulling down your dress. She goes out of the room, says something to the nurse before clicking her pen and writing something on the pad and it’s only then do you hear Lexa’s coarse voice interrupting politely. It’s low and oddly at the threshold of the door but you hear it clear enough.

 

“And _Klark._ She’s alright?”

 

Harper stops her writing and looks up at her colleague. You think the crinkles of her face lines as she smiles admirably at the older doctor. “Absolutely, Dr. Woods. A bit tired but it’s pretty normal.” 

 

Lexa nods and Harper crosses the room to you.

 

“We’ll not know the gender until sometime later. Though I’ll have to say – this little bugger is going to keep you at nights pretty soon, _Mrs. Woods.”_

 

She says it with a laugh and hands a page of some vitamins. _Just in case –_ she says.

 

You are both at the corridor when Dr. Harper comes walking in hurried steps, making you ponder if you had forgotten something. But then she says, “ _Nyko_ _Rodriguez –_ he called me this morning – he’s having trouble with his leg again – “

 

Harper pauses as Lexa recollects the details. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

 

 

 

“I actually have a phone call to make back home – “ You blurt involuntarily no sooner you reach the trunk, making her pause, her hand on the door knob.

 

“ – and I might even head to the library afterwards?” You end weakly.

 

“Sure, of course.” Lexa closes the ajar door shut and shuffles in her back pockets before pulling out some notes and handing them over to you much against your protest. The money that she handed you – comparing to a town like this where no one seems to lock their car doors - might seem be a too bit much but Lexa just nods and folds them back to you.

 

“Come find me when you are done. I’ll take you back home.” She almost pauses at _home_ – so do you, half turned at her.

 

_Home._

_Home._

 

 

“Clarke.”

 

The voice shrieks from the other end, as soon as the ring tone dials up. You have known _Octavia_ before you even knew _Bellamy._ She was the one who had introduced you both – or maybe it was you who had spilled your coffee on her brother, one early morning when you had already been cursing about _Charles Pike’s_ class. He had worn his newly pressed greens that day, lazy curled hair dangling over his eyes when he had looked up and had laughed at your constricted and embarrassed face. 

 

“Does he know?”

 

You sigh and press your head against the black box.

 

“Which part?”

 

You hear Octavia breathe heavily from the other end.

 

“Are you okay at least or do I need to come get you – “

 

“And go where?” The mirthless part of you snickers at the phone, a strong angry tear running down your cheek.

 

She’s silent as you dry your tears.

 

“Bellamy – he does love you. I’m not just saying so because I’m his sister.” Octavia pauses. “ – a broken family, Clarke, that’s how Bell and I grew up. Some past like they just don’t stop following you, you know it, Clarke. You know it all. _It_ made – it changed him – us – who we are now.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I know.”

 

You are so tired as you brush away another growing tear.

 

 

 

You deposit the yellow enveloped letter and end up losing your array of time in the library – _in Marx and Leo Tolstoy._

Low light sleep clings on your eyelids still after she awakens you. It’s almost four in the afternoon and you hurry to return the stack of books to the librarian.

 

Lexa stops you from giving back all though.

 

“We’ll be taking home these three.” She says putting up a library card along with some safety deposit money for the first edition books.

 

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say as you follow her to the trunk. It’s a norm when she doesn’t say anything back, just keys open your side of the door and getting in the driver’s sit. It irks you.

 

Lexa adjusts the rear glass as she clocks in her keys and the engine rumbles up. She parts her mouth to say something – you wait impatiently as she calculates her words out – but she never says.

 

The ride home is unnervingly silent and for some odd reason, you find yourself to be not yet done crying entirely from the recent turmoil of things. You snivel, a hasty hand running over your face.

 

“Will you just say it already?”

 

Your voice isn’t loud over but it snaps her enough. She shuts the engine at the doorway of the house, and she looks at you too deep in your eyes when she asks.    

 

“Are you alright? Like really, are you alright?”

 

You close your eyes shut, an odd wave of worn out-ness greeting you.

 

_I’ll be fine._

“I’m fine.”

 

Lexa looks at you, sharp – you can make out the clench of her jaw. She pulls out a white handkerchief from her pockets and slow as ever she presses you against your warm cheeks - not to startle you as she erases the ruined mascara line disarraying past your eyes.

 

 

_“I wish I could stop this moment – here – now – just you and me.” There’s cream on your lips and paint underneath your nails but Bellamy eyes are only on you. There’s no worry about the class bell to ring – no practice._

_I’ll always be with you, not matter how far I am. – Your father had signed off._

_The army men had all picked up the gun and fired their shots. They had handed your mother a half folded flag and you this last unsent letter._

 

_Sinclair was hard biting his lip. “You are pregnant.” The thesis paper that you were going to submit to Dr. Cartwig remained unturned._

_It’s for the best._

_I’m so sorry, Clarke._

You wondered if this was all just a dream. Heda’s dusty claws scrap against the glass of the trunk. You know it isn’t. The grip on the handkerchief tightens as Lexa places it in your hand, clogged tears falling and falling as she steps out of the car the door banging shut.

 

“Maybe you should say something already too, _Miss Griffin.”_

 

 

 

You twirl and turn that night in bed too, a low hanging silver slithering on your face. A faint knock makes you sit up  and a _come in_ later Lexa pads in and you think this is the first time you have seen her after both of you have retired to bed.

She has a freshly brewed cup of tea in one arm and a weary binded book in another. But you are rosily enamored by the sleekly way her black night dress clings onto her like her second bodice – the sharp loop around her chest that curves low in between her breasts and the articulate way the tan of her skin meshes with the ink blots up her left arm- _almost from the shoulder blade_ and down to the tight muscle of her biceps. 

“Chamomile. A bit of honey and milk.” Lexa says fingers stitching one above the other, her eyes barely stagnant on yours. You catch your breath as you rise up to meet the cup half-way when her soft fingers connects with yours.

 

You are _of course_ pacified at the instant but she quick to move away her hands and hold them behind her back.

 

“To help you sleep.” She coughs out as a pointy sniffling snout pokes his face inside the room. _Heda_ obediently stands by her for a few seconds and apparently he doesn’t care about boundaries really – instead just pushes his nose into you almost toppling you on your bed, a small _ahh_ escaping your lips.

 

He lays his head on your lap, nuzzling almost and you find yourself softening before stiffing up as he moves his head.

 

Your heart thuds, rickety eyes looking up at Lexa. Her eyes a subdued shade of green in the dim lights of the room meeting your gaze half way.

 

“Heda.” There’s a firmness in her gentle command as the cooing dog moves up and almost pitifully stands by her. You watch her hands move deep into his fur, right along the bones of his eyes and warm chocolate eyes bright up.

 

“Goodnight, _Klark.”_

She almost leaves, turning the door knob shut when you call out.

 

“Lexa?”

 

The plump of her lips are too pink. And you are in her half daze.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Your goodnight too comes off as a sigh, a low prayer slipping your lips as you look up to their silhouettes until they disappear from your viewpoint.

 

You try not to think of her throughout the ticking arms of the small alarm clock. Instead you take a warming sip of the tea – sough as you feel it curl down your throat. You turn over the first page of _Anna Karenina,_ a singular finger brushing on a cursive-d _Costia_ at the end and a scribbled quote.

 

_forgive yourself. not just once. again and again and again. as many time as it takes to find peace._

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to sate my overanalyzing mind, say are you this okay with all of this - I mean this chapter?


	3. Chapter 3

 

You wonder who _Costia_ is. You do, each time you open the book, your hand fliting over the six alphabetic name – or as _an afterthought_ mostly that lingers somewhere in the back of your mind when the pencil stops halfway in your drawing, the morning of still dark sky hardening in black shades – _or_ when maybe you are not burning up a simple omelet – _or_ somewhere when you are blowing the last candle before going to bed.

 

You do.

 

But you don’t ask.

 

Lexa calls you _Klark._ Poignant and polite almost like a friend, relishing on the vowels on your name, in a way no one ever calls you, _rampant but soft._

 

But then there are also those ebbs of moments when you can distinguish the ghostly paleness of her face, her long bony fingers shaking when she hears those gunshots on the news – the _uncountable bodies_ of nameless soldiers on some shore and she shuts the TV

 

– _or_ when you will hear Lexa’s blanched nightmare cries ringing through the thin walls of her house, and you wonder how she must swift and turn in her bed, sweat and gripping her mattress to shut her wails.

But come next morning neither of you will acknowledge it. She knows that you know - you will see in under the bag of her eyes, deep and cutting but instead of talking, she will start calling you _Miss Griffin_ for two days.

 

So _maybe_ you are not friends.

 

So you don’t ask _not yet_ because you know she has ghosts too, no matter how well Lexa plumps out the chest of her invisible armor.

 

 

 

“Maybe you should teach me how to drive.”

 

Lexa is still cradling a boxed up cake against the kitchen slab, her sling-bag looking heavy across her coat when she looks up. You shut the small notebook – another blackening shaded tree barely peeking out. Her eyes stays at the closed book a moment too long and then heightens up to meet yours.

 

You clear your throat, hands threading through nervous fingertips and she puts her bag over the chair.

 

“I need some new books, well, I have been needing some new books every once in a while – which is too often and I can’t always ask you to drop me off and pick up just whenever which I do know is very inconvenient for you but the library doesn’t issue more than three books and I – “

 

She stops in you before you have an aneurysm _or so she says aloud._ You feel the burrow of pink swell up in your cheeks at her light hearted _Miss Griffin. (_ She always calls you _Miss Griffin_ when you are both away from the prying eyes of the outside world.)

 

Lexa’s not smiling per se, but there’s a small upturn in her cheeks as she stands in her fitted pants and rolled up collars, the well under her eyes still devoid of sleep but better.

 

“Good day?” You ask, forgetting about your dilemma.

 

Lexa shrugs, her slim shoulders drowning under intricate ribbon hair.

 

“Somewhat.” She replies, washing her hands. You watch as she narrows her eyes at the wall, almost as if she’s mulling over the facts, cautious and slow.

 

“I don’t mind teaching you, if you are up for it.” Lexa says but feel like she’s skipping up through too many thoughts.   

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes. I wouldn’t have said otherwise.”

 

 

Lexa says it’s a _Beca Richmond_ that has given her this chocolate cake – _which she tends to do often._ A widow in her old 60’s. Lexa had met her for the first time down at the church, when she had come here, a little over two years back.

 

“She loves baking.” Lexa supplies taking another mouthful, almost groaning in displeasure and embarrassment at the illicit moans coming from her at the warmth vanilla creamy undercoating.

 

You laugh at her blushed face, nearly toeing on your feet as you nearly forget the warm body of fur curled at your feet – Heda’s dusted skin feathering against your toe skin. You yelp and he looks up, tongue hanging as you catch the fading cake crumbs all over his snout.

 

He’s wet nose touches your skin and you almost jump over he’s thick black tail.

 

“Heda.” Lexa enunciates, a click in her finger and a drooping tail from Heda as he looks up at you before struggling in his way towards Lexa. You almost naively resist the urge to touch Heda.

 

“I should go – “ You gesture to the flight of stairs, fingers flattening away any chocolate sweetness from your chin. Lexa nods, a hand lazing over Heda as she sets down her empty plate and a half glass of lemonade on the table.

 

“Are sure I can’t entice you for another – “

 

You don’t know why but somehow the lighting of the room only seems to carve out the darkness of her eyes and the pinkness of her lips, hiding her sleepless bags of her eyes.

 

“Thank you but no.” You politely decline from the stairs and she gets up, hands dusting over her clothing ready to retire for the night as well. Her hands her folded behind her back, the last time you look back - grey green eyes shining like a clear lake in a dark forest and brown doe eyes stained in cinnamon.

 

 

 

_Bellamy Blake was a rebel. A good rebel but with the attention span of a sparrow. As hilarious and endearing it was – it was annoying in others. And maybe that was one of reasons why just he couldn’t teach you – you would say._

_“Or maybe because it’s just not for you, Princess.” He would tease back moments later taking the wheel from you, his voice a bit heavier, crispy in corners. You would look at him and he would always look away, the slanting roofs of your hostel disappearing in the rear mirror. You’ll watch him move his eyes, fidgeting his jittery eyes at the road – the mirror and at you, his hand tight on the wheel._

_“Octavia just grew up too fast, you know, before I could – not that I could teach her but you know.” He won’t finish, his eyes lost in the remembrance on the twin pigtailed girl he had left behind when Bellamy had opted to go the army, both of them young and grieving._

“No. No. Klark, you have to push the clutch pedal all the way down before starting the car.”

“When you feel the clutch engage, slowly start lifting your left leg to release pressure on the clutch. No. no – “

 

Her corrections are prudent and blunt but she does it without that patriotic edge in her voice. You hear Lexa sighs for an umpteenth, the trivial mechanisms of the automobile somehow evading you. It’s demoralizing, not that Lexa says anything but somehow disappointing her to you is, and it’s that simple meagre fact that irks you. Maybe it’s really not for you.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t – “ The engine is standing, no rumble. You place on hand on the door of the trunk, another on your skirt, lips in a thin line, already nodding at your incompetence.

 

Lexa looks at you, shoulders shrugging – no irritation but maybe some reluctant disappointment.

 

“It took me a while too.” She eases out. “So, how about we try again.”

 

 

 

The trunk is moving too swiftly and in perfect symphony that has you lift up in your seats. It’s a bumper that staggers you and the trunk and Lexa’s hands were frailty and caution, shaking gently as she reaches for yours over the wheels, steadying it.

 

You don’t think she even notices but you feel the warmth of her lithe fingers wrap loosely over yours.

 

“Push down the clutch pedal down and move to second gear.” You follow Lexa’s instructions unknowingly shell-pinked, a pitched _it’s moving_ falling out of your lungs.

 

Lexa peels off her hands immediately then, making your turn your head at their absence, looking beautifully ashen until the sunlight – _grey and subdued_ in dimpled crinkles of proudness at she quirks her eyebrows up at you and _almost_ a totally stranger to your inner turmoil.

 

 

 

_Her room is at the end of the hall. Not too close but close enough somehow._

_You had been thirsty and you had realized the jug by your bed is empty. You are still coughing in dry throat so you make your way through the moonlighted hallway, your bare feet almost cracking. You had taken a glass and pour yourself some water. At first you had blamed it on your ears - the shallow haunted gasps of tears and hiccups clinking in the eeriness of the air. You placed the glass of the slab, then you had moved and moved and until you had stopped in front of her door, a havoc of a heart in your hand._

_You didn’t see her through the small creaked opening of the door in the subduing light of a candle vague but she’s was crying in her sleep. You knew that without seeing her. There’s were loud gasps and muffled and slurring names – you had seen it all before – but you didn’t do anything to help her, feet already hurrying back before your mind had caught up. You knew you didn’t sleep that night._

 

 

 

It’s been more than a week now, the creaks of the wood and those untimely howls of _Heda_ a bit familiar to you than you had the first time you stepped foot here. The small bedside clock stutters at a late _2 in the morning_ and you find yourself getting up from bed.

 

You slither in through her unlocked door, Lexa’s face glistening in unconscious demons. She’s stirring under the sheets, legs jumping in trembling lips and begging tears and you can’t take it anymore.

 

“Lexa. Lexa, wake up.” You nudge and her world is aquiver, her forearms gritting your hands. Her lips are parted and she’s having trouble breathing, claustrophobic and choking, slowly exploding from the inside out.

 

“Lexa, _please._ Lexa.” Both of your hands are in a painful tight gasp, and you are almost atop her when Lexa juts up, eyes blurry around the edges like smoke. It takes her a moment before she lands her eyes on you.

 

“ _Klark.”_

 

Her eyes are wistful but you almost try not whimper at the pressure of her arms. She notices, her grip loosening to leaving shallow foot prints of red.

 

“I’m so sorry.” Lexa ghosts her hands over the skin which she had previously held harshly but you don’t want her self-pity. You know some things are just beyond your control.

 

“It’s alright.” You say sincerely. She nods, eyes far-away and half berating herself. Lexa looks at the clock – _2.25am._ You can hear her curse and bite her cheek as she gets off her bed, throwing in a shirt over her night dress.

 

“I’m sorry for waking you from your sleep – “ She begins, fingers nipping against each other, her head high yet her eyes anywhere but you.

 

“Lexa, it’s alri – “

 

“ – I’ll escort you back to your room, it’s the least I could do – “

 

“Lexa, I didn’t mind –“

 

“ –I’m never usually like this and I – “

 

“Will you just shut up for a second?”  You don’t mean to snap out but your voice comes with a hard edge and stomping feet. Your face is flushed, before it churns down at her meek nod.

 

You heave. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

 

She nods, hands cuffed behind her back standing at the other side of the bed.

 

“I – you haven’t sleeping properly and you need sleep. You are a doctor for God’s sake.” You pause, tugging the arms closer at the settling cold of the room. “I know about nightmares too, you know. I have seen them. I have had them myself and I honestly didn’t mind helping you out – I mean, we are sort of friends, right?”

 

You swallow in an empty throat, your words come both difficult and easier when you are with her. Your statement ends as your own question, hesitant eyes peering at Lexa’s, a tangent hand twirling the ring on your finger.

 

She’s seems as uncertain as you feel, but she acknowledges your notion with a nod. She looks at the bed again.

“I usually can’t go back to sleep afterwards – “ Her eyes are heavy in tiredness but Lexa doesn’t ask you anything directly. You can feel sleeplessness in you’re the back of your lids too.

 

“I can stay until you fall asleep?”

 

“I can’t ask you of that.” She nods solemnly.

 

“You are not.” You sit on the side of the bed, giving a small smile in timid encouragement, sliding the covers to make place for her. Lexa moves, blowing out the light of all but one candle, as she settles in beside you, _stiff_ \- heavy brown curls out of sheathed braids, intimate inks art peeking out from corners of her clothing.

 

The light flame is mellow. She doesn’t look at your questioning eyes.

 

“I don’t like the darkness.” She says in the space in between and you resist the urge to curl your arm around her. _You don’t. She doesn’t either._

 

It’s cold. There’s two thick layers of fur on both of you and both of you settle just close enough for your breaths to mingle, faces facing each other. _And your eyes tracing the shadow of her face._

 

    

 

_“Make them stop Clarke, please, make them stop.” Finn would beg you almost every night, in bloody knuckles and a maddening mind._

_His platoon was ordered to kill 18 people – defenseless women and children. It was a small village, no guns, nothing but it across the enemy border and no one wanted to take a risk._  

 

_So they did._

_He says he remembers their please – spare our children, they had begged. But he didn’t._

_He was a Private – a boy thrusted with false idealism, and your first kiss._

_He would come to your house in disguise to talk to your father but instead he would hand you a flower and smile, how it looked prettier with you._

_You were young and naïve but you still think if you could have saved Finn Collins from himself._

 

 

 

You wake up to bright lights and a peaceful _Finn’s_ face fading and a heavy screeching sound that muds your eyes. You are disorient in your feet already reaching out to the bed side clock that’s not there. And then yesterday _or rather today’s early morning’s_ comes back in recollection.

 

_You still in her room. In her furs._

You stand up instantly, eyes jumping to the empty side of the bed and then to the clock on the wall.

 

It’s late.

 

And there’s that god awful sound of engine again.

 

You don’t dwell on the first actual pleasant night’s sleep that you have had in a long time and the lenient smell of honey in her sheets that lingers despite Lexa’s absence. You sly in your robe and walk to the porch, almost crashing into a greasy gloved Lexa in a fitted training shirt and some tight jeans and boots.

 

You _good morning_ gets clogged at your momentary glance of her open sculptured armed muscles and the two charcoal skinned art peddling proudly.

 

“Hello.” She says hers rather evenly but her _good morning too_ unlike yours, comes tinted in red ears as she looks away from you instantly as she sees you. You almost call her out on her rude behavior when she good gestured-ly coughs as her vision flitting down on your bosom again. In sub conscious realization, your hand instinct-ly jumps at your unstringed robe and the pale valley of your cleavage that marvels out.

 

Despite Lexa already looking away, you still turn your back on her, rosiness in the tips of your fingers as your work on your robe. You wet your dried lips, clasping your eyes shut at the small embarrassment.

 

“I was in a hurry.” You explain. _You know you don’t even need to explain. Even Lexa knows that._

You wonder if you hear a faint laugh. “Why?” She asks.

 

You plate the front of your dress. “I just – “ You don’t continue. “What are you doing out front?” By the time you turn around, Lexa has already moved to the shed, body bent down and moving astutely amidst the machinery of a _motorcycle._      

 

She cleans the _Ajs_ insignia.

 

“It’s a _1940_ model.” She says rather proudly. You think it looks awfully dangerous. “I figured since you’ll be needing the trunk, I might get this old boy running again. It’s been rusting in the shed for quite some while.”

 

 You are not convinced entirely. _If at all._

“Isn’t it – dangerous?”

 

“Not at all.” She promises, swinging her leg and settling on the singular seat, tarnished gloves rubbing on the skin of the engine. She looks experienced and it suits her _quaintly well._ “I was thinking about having Raven check the engines out.”

 

You are confused at that.

 

“She’s a damn good mechanic.”

 

Lexa probably thinks the conversation is over as she turns her attention back to the motor engine, kindling and rearranging. She doesn’t mention anything from past night either – _not even about your lack of propriety_ and you have a half mind to back inside but you somehow want to push away the awkwardness between you aside.

Your boots push away the cement and the grit of a once garden.

 

“What happened to the garden here?” You ask, half expecting a reply.

 

Lexa pauses her work at hand. She furrow her brows.

 

“My _nomon -_ mother loved gardening or so my father had said. I don’t really remember her. After her, he took into gardening – _it became a place of solace for him_ but then he died too. _Tuberculosis.”_ Lexa says, as she gets up and takes off her gloves and walks past you.

 

“I wasn’t even here. _Father Gustus_ buried him.” She inhales, ending bitterly. “I didn’t care for gardening much afterwards.”

 

 _I didn’t get to say my goodbye._ Lexa doesn’t say but her silent whisper is louder than any sound in your ears.

 

You know she might have heard this too many times. You still say, “I’m sorry.” She nods like you don’t understand - _the weight of almosts’ sitting like the weight of the entire world on a heart._

 

“My dad, Jake – he was in the bomb unit in the army. _Major Jake Griffin._ He died when I was pretty young – third degree burns and too many metal shards too save him.” You swallow in your adrift thoughts and his succumbing face.

 

“I won’t presume to know how hard it must have been and still is for you, Lexa but I do know something about bottling up one’s sorrows. It doesn’t help much.”

 

You know she’s angry at the way she grips onto the wrench. You know she’s frightfully sad too.

 

“I know I’m a complete stranger to you as you are to me but we have been bound together for the long life – “ Your eyes softly fall on the growing _someone_ inside of you, hollow waters settling on your sclera. “and I know I asked you this before but, can we friends rather than strangers, Lexa?”

 

A war was going on somewhere just across the borderlines and you both know, in wars there’s always the uncertainty.

 

Lexa looks at you in the eye, a shallow crevice that has cried too many times. Sturdy in the vows she had taken.

 

“I would like that, _Klark Griffin._ ”       

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I don't know how many of you are this following this story - I know, I'm shit at updating. Still, let me know your thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so out loop and it's all mostly because of the tyrant called my life. Lol, it's been somewhat tiring. Anyhow, I wrote this overnight and I would like to thank you to all those who have loved it enough to comment and for tagging along. 
> 
> So, whoever is still reading this - here it is.

 

 

You plan to make a phone call to _your mother, if she picks up in due time._  Or at least that’s what you tell Lexa when she asks you if you had a proper talk with your mother about – _well everything here and in general._ You both know the answer to that so you would reluctantly cross the street one afternoon and enter the small postal office – a dual telephone pod standing just by the door of it.

 

But when _Abby_ will pick up the phone at the first ring almost as if she has been waiting for her phone to ring, you would hold your breath, hear her irritated _hello hello_ at the empty dial tone from the other end and it would only make your blood boil.

 

You would stab the receiver so hard down that it’s body would tremble and instead of saying you haven’t talked to your mother – you’ll just tell _Lexa,_ that _Abby_ was busy at the moment.

 

 

 

 

“Slow day at the healthcare and so I thought - .” Lexa justifies with a defense when an unconscious frown designs over your face, when she hastily adds of joining you to town. _Unless you don’t want me to_ is there in the air, unspoken like a small prick on the skin and in the tight grip of her own fingers.

 

“No, no.” You are quick to reassure her, the familiar touch of bile at the back of your throat – the same one treacherous one that has kept you awake since the day you had formed a sort of a _friendship_ with your own wife.

_He_ hasn’t replied. _He_ hardly replies when he’s overseas but that has never stopped you from writing the multitude of _I wish-es_ and _if you were here’s._ Except this time it does.

 

This time – the _Dear Bell_ is there. And so are about a good five lines of here and there but nothing. _Nothing about your child._ And certainly, _nothing about your marriage._

 

The letter burns in fumes in your chest and your guilt and reminiscence are gasoline to it.

 

It’s just you have been working and I didn’t – “ You don’t conclude and you try far too hard to not let your emotions spill out from the tingling in your ribs. _You don’t_ because _Bellamy_ is your love longer than _Lexa_ has been your lawful wife – no, _a friend –_ or just maybe _your something._

 

The eyebrow of hers move up at you but she doesn’t question you, delving her head and gesturing you towards the open passenger door. There’s a prominent thud in the back of the trunk as Lexa opens the small hatch in between and the intimate snout of _Heda_ peens out, a long wet tongue sweeping against the skin of your stilled ears.

 

His attention on you is shared with the urban path as he zones out to bark at the twirling lane of his home and you can’t help but smile at the giddiness of his eyes, his red tongue fleeting past his face at the gust of country wind.

 

Lexa’s laugh no matter how far and in between, isn’t lost to you either. Her pearl teethed smile and her _he’s growing on you defiantly, Clarke Griffin._

But honestly, it doesn’t assuage the nag in your thoughts at all.    

 

 

Their house is much closer to town and smaller in circumference than _Lexa’s_ and yours – a warm brown and a leisurely spread one floored. Lexa turns off the engine, a white gloved hand placating over the wheel as she borrows you time to settle your nervousness. You don’t know why you are nervous – _you honestly shouldn’t care about people you haven’t known no more than a couple of weeks –_ but somehow you are.

 

Lexa doesn’t prod you however. She’s odiously patient, sitting a good fifteen minutes down the lane just near Anya’s house as you count your breathing to normality.

 

“It’ll be okay.” Lexa assures as if a truer statement has never been spoken, a part of you already armoring against her promise – _just another disaster in wait._  But still, you take a leap, find the borough of her eyes - _friends_ and you nod.

The ground is slushy under your pebbled leather heels. Your first steps has your regretting every decision and you almost feel the scrutiny in Anya’s eyes as she marks your each footing that definitely has your twist your ankle but each time, _like the time before,_ Lexa shadows her hold on your waist that has you thinning your throat.

 

Her _carful_ is mudded over Anya’s interruption.

 

“It seems like the fancy _Arkadia_ fashion is not up to date with the basic desideratum of places and situations.”

 

“Anya.” Lexa hisses at her sister’s nonchalance, sharp in her navy kneed dress and flat shoes, eyeing her over to help you. _Anya doesn’t_ and Lexa seems too ready to comment back when Raven comes at the doorway and scissors past the tension and gestures you both inside their little cooing abode.

 

 

 

 _Tris Reyes - Pine_ looks nothing like Anya or Raven – she lacks the Caucasian tint of _Anya’s_ and Mexican spice that springs out of _Raven’s_ eyes. _Tris_ is pale and lanky for an eleven year old – in long braids and cream dress on, arms already jumping and surrounding you before you have set a foot in their household.

 

“You are very pretty, _Miss Clarke._ ” Tris says with open big eyes and rose blush of her cheeks that somehow rises up the back of your neck when you feel Lexa’s eyes on you, lengthening and trail past down the high necked blouse and the skirt.

 

Raven coughs, a languid and loud enough _she sure does_ hanging in the closeted air, encircling between you, Lexa and Anya’s pointed suspicion.

 

 

 

  _Anya_ is a tax accountant and most supposedly, she’s also a silent terror there as well, Raven promises with a quip, a small wink shared with you over a bite of cheese and eggs.

 

“I have proof.” Raven adds at her wife’s stern gaze but even Anya doesn’t deny the allegation either as Raven continues. “You have yet to meet him - no wonder, Titus Bellman doesn’t had a single hair on his head. And it’s been close to six years. _That_ and he’s a hermit.” There’s another hasty gulp of her food and you can see Lexa almost smiling in reprimand acne, as Raven palms her hands over _Tris’s_ ears.  “And, someone needs to tell him that if you never sin, Jesus died for nothing.”

 

Your cough comes uncertain much at Raven’s amused gaze, and Lexa places a glass of water in your hand, patting your back in paused accordance, laughter eminent in her voice.

 

“You’ll never get a dull moment around _Raven Reyes.”_

 

 

No matter how much you try, you fail miserably to wholly dive into their talk. It doesn’t help, no matter how okay it is, because sitting there you are looking for more when you know you shouldn’t. _Raven_ is regaling in a story about a _Dax_ who can’t even handle the simple machinery of a printing press back at the factory and how she has to pull his weight as well.

 

It certainly doesn’t help when you keep looking up only to meet the icy gaze of _Anya’s_ – as if she knows your unknown tales and the gaps in your sincerity. You twirl the chicken in your plate and of course you compliment each course of food that is served to you even though you know you don’t have too.

 

You just can’t help it.

 

You just can’t not miss _Arkadia_ and your small studio. You miss your parchment writing and sleepless reading. You miss seeing your fellow graduates and dreaming your dream in open eyes. You miss the rush – you miss _Octavia_ and the library hide-out sessions _–_ and _Monty – Jasper._ You are sure _Wells_ is probably gone across coast and probably to _Machu Picchu_ like you both have always imagined. You miss and you are stuck in a parade of married life with a person that _fate_ had stumbled your way and the -

 

“ _Klark.”_ Lexa strings you out and your glass painted reverie breaks, her eyes curious and cautious before she nudges you wordlessly towards the on-going session, though she doesn’t miss the far-away sot of your demeanor.

 

It’s _Tris_ with that shy paused wonderment in her eyes. “Our teacher in class – _Miss Hannah –_ she was mentioning about _Arkadia University_ in Washington and it has this library – “

 

“The Library of Congress, _yes._ One of my most beloved places actually. Spent most of my weekends there.” You light up recollecting one of those few places where you could truly get lost amidst the vastness of infinite pages and pages – _in words_ and _stones carved in history._ “Beautiful and un-paralleled.” You pause, taking in the spark of Tris’s. “If you love books, have an inclination towards you know, woman studies and history – “

 

“ _I do.”_

“Then you’ll love it.”

 

“In the meantime – “ Tris hesitance is gullibly cute, fingertips one onto to other as she looks at you and Aunt Lexa, nodding to her for some convincement and then statics on you. “Maybe you can tell me about it sometime?”

 

“I would love too.” Her smile is genuinely sweet, with the right touch of warmth that extends yours, so much so that you miss the impermanent sadness on Lexa’s facial features as she takes in the crinkles of your face.

 

 

 

“ _Lexa_ – she brought me Raven and Tris.” You are placing a slice of pecan pie on the small plate when Anya’s moves behind you, taking another plate, making it clatter against the tile of the kitchen slab. You stop, and look at the woman, hair tied back, in a faded violet dress, her eyes edged at you.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand – “

 

“Lexa and Raven – they were in the same camp, back in the army where they had met before – “ Anya narrows her eyes at the lack of your recollection and you can’t do anything but stand there like a complete idiot, in a thick dry throat of too many questions.

 

“But you didn’t know that.” Anya interrupts your train wreck passage of thoughts, placing the plate and crossing her arms across her chest. _You didn’t. No, you didn’t. Because Lexa never told you._

 

“No, I – “

 

“You didn’t know because she didn’t tell you.” It’s the way she spits like it’s the universal truth of a statement that bites the inside of your cheeks. You conjecture maybe that’s why Lexa couldn’t attend her father’s funeral. A curse befalls your lips – another string, knotted arms and knees to the _army._  

 

“Maybe she had her reasons.” You justify, eyes dimming down to the wooden floor, in low whispered notes though the voice in your head stands against it. _Maybe Lexa didn’t want you to know._

 

Anya doesn’t say anything. _Maybe she did._ She stands there, words on her tongue and prejudiced judgements in her movements. _Anya’s protective._

_As she should be,_ your mind grits against your conscience.

 

“If Lexa didn’t tell you, then she doesn’t think you should know.” Anya states crossing the room and standing a few feet before you. The _why_ in you churns and churns till it burns in _you too have hidden_ and you recoil in the strength of your own poison’s backlash _._  “I’m sure, by now, you might have deduced this much, _Clarke,_ that Lexa and I, we are not sisters of the same blood but family is stronger than blood. She build my home by giving me Raven and Tris and I owe her my life-long gratitude and loyalty.”

 

“And what it is that you are trying to say?”

 

She stands in a parallel lane to you, lips upturned in a scowl – _a warning_ and a conniving dread settles in your stomach. “Lexa seems to trust you when I know she has a trouble trusting people and that’s what scares me because I don’t trust you. And I hope to _God,_ I’m wrong.”

 

 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, I’m fine.”

 

The front door closes with a small creak.

 

Lexa tilts her head pragmatically. “That is the sixth fine is the last two hours.”

 

_She brought me Raven and Tris._

_She was in the Army._

You breathe soundly and sit down on the sofa and Lexa takes her place against the cardboard, leaning and tabbing on it.

 

“Did Anya mention something?”

 

“No, nothing of utter importance or worth mentioning.” You squeeze out even though the frolicking of your eyes, unknown to you, betrays you in the smallest ways. Lexa, however, doesn’t prod you and eccentrically, it only makes you want to tell her more, _more and everything._

“I miss _home._ ” Your eyes shifted to the side as you admitted your half honest truth, glazed and lower lips quivering. “I miss my friends, my university, writing papers and researching – you know – doing something meaningful. And I miss my mom, even though we were hardly in talking terms before all of this and talking to Tris – it was a flashback to those times and now, I just don’t know.” You gesture vaguely around, a bit of your heart sinking. “It’s not – what I thought – _it’s not how I saw my life, Lexa._ ”

 

“Hardly anyone ever does, _Klark._ I believe, having a child and marrying doesn’t mean your dreams are just a figment, maybe it just means you have to take a step back and reevaluate the situation for the time being at least.”

 

You don’t know if your laugh meets your eyes. _It doesn’t._

 

“I know _this_ – “ Lexa jerks her head around subtly and you give out a small hiccup cum smile – the subtle _someone’s_ lightening you , “ is not an ideal situation but I have been told by _someone_ that bottling up doesn’t do anyone any good so if you ever miss your home, friends, _your mom_ whom you aren’t in good terms – I’m always hear to listen.”

 

“As long as it goes both ways?”

 

The twitch of her lips bears a serenity that calms the current that lashes your shore.

 

_She trusts you._

“It does.”

 

 

 

In one of the days that follow, Lexa hands you a set of charcoal and pencils, not the mediocre few but the cosseted and skin burningly expensive ones, enwrapped in a thick compartmental linen. You are sitting on the porch, hands rudimentarily scrapping at the thinning charcoal tip when Lexa just lays it on you and you nearly jump on your feet.

 

It had been delicately wrapped in a red ribbon, a leather bound sketch book knitted along with it in neat signature.

 

The transience of the initial shock makes your hesitate at the arsenal of art, before you peel up your residing dumbstruck with tongue-tied contentment.

 

“Thank you.” Is what you should say, _you definitely should_ (you almost imagine the admonishingly thunderstruck face of _Abby’s_ at the lack of your _Lady_ like mannerisms) but your hands are already streaming over the cover, almost moon-struck at the gift.

 

“That small book of yours is going to run its course soon enough.” She wipes the dry pluck of her lips, the depth of your eyes looking up to her. “Otis had to go to the central city for some clinic’s products and I thought you prefer them – I’ll be honest, I’m not at all well versed with the world of art – “

 

You haven’t the little blue in her green eyes that carries her emotional currents. She’s always so stoic – and strong, _not that masculine_ kind, brawny and tactless, but one that bears on the soldiers of a silent protector. The same one who brought home Raven and Tris. _And you can’t stop thinking about it._

_And the desperate urge as to why she didn’t want you to know._

Your belated and half gracious _thank you_ is overshadowed, the muscles of your lips becoming reflexive and deceitful.

 

“You are beautiful when you are nervous.”  You mean, _you stammer,_ cheeks inflamed and hot, hesitant eyes looking up to her, standing tranquil and all dark eyes. “I mean, _thank you._ ” You have received far fancier gifts that had no use for you but this _one_ – small and rightfully intricate. “I love it.”

 

“Good.” She replies in a hoarse firm tone. _No way shaky like yours._

 

 “Even though you haven’t seen any of my drawings – for all you may know, I might be horrible at it.” You stupidly laugh at the awkward moment. Lexa however doesn’t, just looking at you as if seeing right through you.

 

“Good or not, you enjoy doing it.” Lexa smiles and _yes, it suits her infinitesimally more than probably anyone you have seen._ “And I would love it see them sometime, if you are alright with that?”

 

She waits for your small nod before Lexa steps away and you only rain in her wake, smooth and _cleansing._

 

 

 

You take up gardening to fill your long empty hours _or that’s what you tell yourself_ when you start dressing up for a third day, your companion being the furry four legged beast who would follow you around, a shadow to his master, picking up long plastic bags and small shovels by you whenever you have a need for them. _It definitely doesn’t have to do anything with Lexa and doing something nice for her._

 

The front yard was barely hanging – a wilted shade with light shining through the dangling wintry branches of the stunted fir tree.

 

You stuff your hands with gloves and change into some thick work attire that Lexa sets aside for you one morning. She doesn’t say anything aside from suggesting not to ruin your fancy pants over garden work. But you see the ache in Lexa that comes and goes as she takes it the clean yard, furnished and those un-plucked pots on the back of the truck.

 

You begin with a few beans and mustard greens, easy to grow under the crackly and prolonged cool altitude weather. And follow them through with hydrangea, some poppies and lavender to brighten up on the stale morning when there would be nothing but hefty grey clouds in the sky, with the daylilies coming as a happy recommendation from a jovial vendor of the flower shop.

 

The yard looks better – sufficiently, nourished with a human touch and as you stand there you can almost imagine a long cobbled path meeting up to the sturdy street ahead, somewhere mixing with the orange skies lain over. You nod your head, breaking yourself out of the static reverie and picking up the small equipments, bundling them up one at a time and carrying them down to the basement.

 

You’ll blame it on the callousness of your behavior, one feet of yours stepping perfectly well over the other as you turn and fall over a heap of clothes and boxes. The clash is eminent enough that it has Heda howling, making you shout out to the cuddling beast to shush.

 

You have never been to the basement. _Not before this._ Lexa had been kind enough to peel out all the necessities out for you so you wouldn’t lose your way into the black hole of a walled chamber or worse yet, fall down and break some bones.

 

_Which thankfully you didn’t._

You flick the loose thread down and the small yellow bulb illuminates the closed space, webbed in spiders and too many arachnoids you wish you didn’t know.  You probably wouldn’t have noticed it – _but then again, you know the two gold flower starred emblem too well to not notice it._ The navy blue uniform is clinging in a camouflage of dust, a lone thumb of yours flicking across the outline of the collar, moving in a bovine pace down each button by button, before you move up and clasp onto the name tag imprinted on it, dread rising in a crescendo.

 

_A. Woods._

 

_Major Alexandria Woods._

 

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anyone who's reading it - how are you liking it? Let me know, drop a comment I guess?

**Author's Note:**

> The further chapters - uh, honestly - if people want to then I'll definitely do them. I haven't worked with the marriage genre so kinda wobbly here. So, tell me how you guys liked it or hated it or want more -?
> 
> Thanks.
> 
> And wishing you a very Happy New Year :)


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